


Seedkeeper

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asshole Spanking, Bondage, Chastity Device, Cock Cage, Collars, Dom/Sub | Power Play, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, Involuntary Nudity, M/M, Male God/Male Worshiper - Freeform, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Piercing, Public Sex, Public Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Seduction, Whipping, fertility gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Jarrah, the seventh son of Ydon the Destroyer, waits for the invaders to come and kill his hated sire.  Ydon had swept through the land of Ur-Avvar, bringing famine and death.  He'd destroyed the holy temple and perverted it into a seat of power.  But Jarrah is also the son of Jiseth, the last priestess of the God of Darkness and Fertility, and she has taught her son the rites that will bring the gods back to Ur-Avvar and fertility to the land.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrinesunset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/gifts).



> Written for Smutswap 2017, for Citrinesunset. I hope you enjoy!

"My lord prince, you must come with me. We may yet escape."

Jarrah tears his eyes away from his father – pacing the length of the throne room – and looks at Micah, his last surviving servant. "No, my friend, I cannot go. My mother – "

"Your mother would have wanted you to live."

Jarrah ignores that. He knows the exact price his mother had paid to ensure her son's survival. "You should go, take what you can and escape before the invaders arrive. It would pain greatly me to see you fall."

Micah refuses, "If you stay, so must I." Micah, who is older than Jarrah by at score of years and half that much again, is acting like a truculent child.

"You cannot guilt me into running." Jarrah turns his attention back to his father. Ydon, the king of Ur-Avvar, or as Jarrah calls him in the privacy of his mind, Ydon the _Destroyer_ , paces the length of the throne room – what used to be the Temple's holy sanctuary – waiting for news of his eldest son's success. 

Or more likely, his failure. 

Five of Jarrah's monstrous half-brothers have already fallen before the invaders, their heads sent to the palace packed in salt and ash. Each time Ydon had opened one of those caskets and pulled out the desiccated remains, Jarrah had felt an unnatural surge of joy. He'd loathed his half-brothers almost more than he despised his sire.

The men who'd been spawned from Ydon's loins before Jarrah had been as cruel and brutish as their father, but worse. Whereas Ydon is mostly occupied with expanding his empire and keeping a tight grip on the people of Ur-Avvar, his elder sons had run as a pack of rapid wolves, despoiling and destroying everything within their reach.

But only until the invaders had first appeared, a little less than two years ago – shortly after Jarrah's seventeenth birthday. And until last month, Ydon had held back his eldest, Yrig, the crown prince, and sent five of his eldest sons to lead the imperial armies, drive back the invaders, and punish the people who'd supported those who'd sought to break Ydon's hold on Ur-Avvar. 

Yrad had died in the first battle, cut down while ordering his troops to scorch the land. His was the first head the invaders had sent back to the palace, minus his tongue. Qryvis, more skilled at rape than strategy, had been killed while sodomizing an acolyte of the last surviving temple to the old gods. His right eye socket was filled with what looked like a withered cock and his mouth was filled with testicles.

Emryu's and Soryn's heads had been returned in equally gristly condition, although Jarrah had not been present when they'd been unpacked. He'd heard that the top of Emryu's head had been sliced off like a piece of ripe melon and the brains replaced with feces, which was only appropriate, since Emryu had been a moron. 

No one would tell him the condition of Soryn's head, not even a hint of a whisper. Jarrah only had to suppose that it had been as vile as the man that Soryn had been in life. When Jarrah was five, Soryn had tried to kill him – no that that was surprising or unexpected. Jarrah had survived assassination attempts since he'd been only hours old. But Soryn's plan had been particularly vicious. He'd killed the nursery guards, stolen Jarrah out of his bedroom and sold him to a brothel that specialized in providing diseased men with a "cure" – usually a very young virgin who'd give up his purity and take on the sickness.

Even if Jarrah had survived the inevitable rape, he wouldn't have survived the infections. Micah had saved him, but had lost an eye in as payment for his loyalty. 

"You need to go, my friend. Save yourself."

"But your father – he is in a rage. If he sees you, he might kill you. And when the invaders come …" Micah's voice trails off as he admits to the inevitable.

"I will stand before them and abjure my sire and his offspring. I will swear myself to the invaders and give them my loyalty if they will reinstate the Temple. I have no interest in the crown."

"And if they refuse your offer, my prince?"

"Then I will die."

"Or worse."

Jarrah shrugs. "I don't think it will come to that."

"Your optimism is admirable." Micah's tone is dry. 

Jarrah stares at his sire through the stone fretwork. This upper gallery had once been the refuge of the faithful, where they could observe the priests and priestesses perform the holy rite at the change of the seasons. But his sire had put an end to that when he'd desecrated the Temple and turned it into his seat of power, literally. In place of the holy altar, Ydon had installed a single, massive throne and proclaimed himself king and god. Lightning should have struck him dead for such blasphemy uttered in a holy place, but Ydon lived.

However, he did not prosper. Nor did the land. From the moment Ydon and his sons swept through Ur-Avvar like locusts, like the plague, the once-fertile land turned barren. Crops failed, fruit rotted on the trees, livestock died. The land rejected the invader's rule, but Ydon kept a tight grip and refused to recognize that his blasphemy and that of his offspring were what had brought disease to the land.

Jarrah takes enjoyment in watching his sire rage. A minion approaches and tries to soothe Ydon and for his presumption, he receives a backhanded slap that sends him to his knees. If the man had been one of the slaves who have been forces to serve here, Jarrah would feel sorry, but the victim of Ydon's rage is a member of the High Court, a man who'd won his position through flattery and theft and rape. When Ydon starts kicking him, Jarrah almost hopes the flunky dies. Almost, not quite, because the throne room is – despite Ydon's desecration – still hallowed ground and there has been far too much blood spilt in it already.

It is at this moment that Jarrah's world changes forever.

The doors to the throne room blow open, despite the heavy oak beam that has barred them shut. That beam isn't splintered – merely cleft in two – and the doors now frame a creature the likes of which could only be summoned from nightmares. Ydon's nightmares, certainly, because Jarrah is enthralled.

A rider on a black horse, wearing armor that could have been fashioned from the night sky, prances into the throne room. The hoof beats chime like crystal bells as horse and rider approach the usurper king of Ur-Avvar.

"You have sent six of your sons against me. All six have fallen." The rider tosses something at Ydon. It's Yrig. Or at least Yrig's head. The roll is uneven, set off-kilter by the dagger protruding from an eye-socket.

"Like you, your son lacked vision."

The invader's voice is deep and beautiful, at least to Jarrah's ears. He'll be hearing it in his dreams for however many nights he has left in his life. Jarrah wonders what his sire hears. Hopefully, his doom.

Jarrah risks a look over to Micah, who is kneeling, his forehead touching the marble, his hands covering his face, in the posture of a supplicant.

"Micah?"

His friend ignores the whisper. Jarrah puts a gentle hand on Micah's back and is surprised to feel him trembling. Micah is the bravest man Jarrah knows and this display of fear troubles him.

But Jarrah's attention is drawn back to the scene below.

More hoof beats ring against the marble floor as six other mounted warriors crowd into the throne room. The men of his sire's court cower against the walls, hide behind pillars or in a few cases, collapse to their knees, as prostrate as Micah.

"Ydon of Ys. Ydon the Invader. Ydon the Destroyer."

Jarrah wonders if his sire will run, but Ydon is many vile things, he is not a coward and he steps over Yrig's head and draws his sword.

Defiance – or perhaps fear – gives Ydon's voice power. He draws his sword and bellows, "Who are you?"

The first invader, whatever he might be – man or demon or god – dismounts and draws his own sword. The unsheathing is both discordant and strangely arousing. 

Jarrah is startled by the sudden swelling of his cock. 

"You should know who I am, Ydon the Defiler. You have taken what's mine."

"Yours? What is yours?"

The invader gestures – his sword a sweeping arc of light. "This is my temple. You raped my priestess, you tossed my altar into the fields you'd salted and set your throne in the place where only the sacred rites are permitted."

Jarrah gasps. His mother had been the high priestess of Asher. Is the invader actually the god?

Ydon doesn't back down. "The old gods are dead. They have not walked these lands for generations. I am the king, I hold Ur-Avvar by right of power and blood."

"You hold nothing, Defiler. Your sons are dead, your blood and power are gone."

"I can always make more sons."

Jarrah bites the inside of his mouth to keep himself silent. Is he not Ydon's last son?

"Not if you don't have a cock and balls." The invader moves too fast for Jarrah's eyes to follow and Ydon doubles over. There's blood pouring out from between his sire's thighs. 

The invader circles around the barely upright Ydon, boot heels ringing – the only sound except for Ydon's pained breaths.

Jarrah feels as if he's caught in a dream. The invader, although clothed in darkness, is haloed in brilliant light. It hurts to look upon him, but Jarrah cannot tear his gaze away.

"You are dead. You have been dead for a long time, but you haven't known it." The invader's sword traces a path along Ydon's forehead, just under the crown he still wears. The point is sharp and blood trickles down Ydon's face. "You are dead and this land has suffered. But no more."

Ydon looks up, there is still some fire in his eyes. But he's not looking at his tormentor, but up at the gallery, at Jarrah. The invader's gaze follows and Jarrah turns away, hiding behind the stone fretwork. He is like a small, hunted rabbit, quivering with fear, unable to move. 

His sanctuary is about to be breached as the clatter of approaching footsteps thunder up the stairs. Jarrah keeps his head down and keeps silent as he's grabbed and dragged away. Micah, though, fights and is too quickly subdued. Two men carry him down the winding staircase. He can hear Micah begging them not to hurt his prince, but that gets no reaction.

He's in the throne room all too soon and to his surprise, Jarrah's released onto his feet. Micah, though, is made to kneel.

Jarrah keeps his eyes down; it hurts to look at the invader. He focuses on his sire, this is the first time he's seen the man on his knees. Ydon looks small, as if he's been reduced to almost nothing.

The invader steps close. "You are Ydon's blood."

"Not willingly." 

"There is power in being the seventh son."

"I reject any power from Ydon the Destroyer." Jarrah completes the promise he'd make to Micah just a short while ago.  "I swear my allegiance to you and renounce all claims to the throne, all kinship to the House of Ydon. I give myself into your hands and ask only that you reinstate the temple and dedicate it to Asher, the god of fertility. This I swear on my mother's blood."

A gloved hand tilts his chin up and Jarrah is forced to look at the invader's masked gaze. The helm is fashioned into a bird of prey – an eagle – but the eyes behind it are not avian. And nor are they truly human. Bright, burning blue with flashes of red lightning. Jarrah shivers, once again aroused when he should be frightened.

"You might be of Ydon's loins, but you are descended from the priestesses of this temple. The holy line shines in you." 

"Jiseth, the last of the high priestesses, was my mother. The Destroyer took her by force. She cursed Ydon as she died. She cursed his all of children."

"Even you?"

"Jiseth loved me, but I was not exempt from her curse – 'Your women shall be barren, no seed from your loins will find fertile ground. The House of Ydon shall die as it has lived, without mercy, without life, without hope.' I accept this as my fate."

Jarrah feels consumed by the fire in the invader's eyes, burned clean of his sire's taint.

"Jiseth was a holy woman who could parse words like the most learned of judges."

Jarrah is puzzled by that comment, but he does not have the time to ponder the invader's meaning. His sire manages to get to his feet, shouting, "You are no son of mine, Yrah. You are a traitor to your blood."

Jarrah despises the name his sire used, the corrupted pronunciation of his mother's sweet tongue, but before he could correct Ydon – if he so dares – the invader backhands his sire, knocking him down; much as Ydon had done to his minion not so long ago. 

The invader stands over Ydon, a booted foot on the fallen Destroyer's chest. "Do you know what this boy, your seventh son, has done? Do you know that he's brought your downfall? That his deeds will be sung long after your name has been forgotten?"

Ydon momentarily defeated, Jarrah finds his courage. "My name is Jarrah, I am named for my mother's people. Yrah only exists on your lips." This is the first direct speech Jarrah has ever made to his sire. The words he speaks come from his soul, "You do not belong here; you have no place in the Temple of Asher. You are a defilement. Jiseth's curse holds true. You will die as you have lived."

Ydon struggles against the invader's boot, and in his fight, the crown that Ydon has worn with such vulgar pride falls off and rolls away, spinning over the polished marble until it bumps against Yrig's head and comes to a clattering stop.

The invader releases Ydon, who struggles to his feet again. Jarrah steps back as the invader gestures for Ydon to pick up his sword. 

"I should kill you as I've killed the monsters that sprung forth from your loins, but this is still a scared place and I find myself reluctant to commit murder on this stones."

Jarrah wonders if Ydon doesn't raise his sword, doesn't strike at the invader, will he be allowed live. It doesn't seem likely. 

He doesn't have long to ponder the question. Ydon picks up his blade and limps towards the invader in a suicidal attack, who very neatly impales him.

A moment later, the invader pulls his blade free and Ydon falls to the floor, dead in body as he'd been in soul.

"Burn it. Burn it to ash."

Two of the invader's companions – the same creatures who'd brought Jarrah and Micah down from the gallery – drag Ydon away, one of them stopping to retrieve Yrig's head.

"Now, what shall I do with you, Jarrah, son of Jiseth, high priestess of Asher."

Jarrah falls to his knees. "I am yours to command."

Micah, for the first time since they'd been brought down from the gallery, whispers, "No, my prince. Do not do this. You don't understand what is happening."

The invader strides over to Micah; he, too, is on his knees, his face averted. "You have the blood of the priestly line in you."

Micah speaks to the stone floor "I was born in the Temple, Jiseth and I share a grandmother."

Jarrah had not known this, but now Micah's unwavering loyalty makes sense. Most of the boy children born in the Temple would have been raised to protect the priestesses and acolytes. Only one or two out of a generation would have been selected to serve the gods.

"And that is why your life will be spared." The invader uses his boot to lift up Micah's face. "You know who I am."

Micah nods and tries to keep his eyes down.

"Are there any other males of the line left? Other than you and the prince you try to protect?"

Micah shakes his head. "No, Holy One. Ydon killed them all."

 _Holy One?_ Jarrah's suspicions are all but confirmed – the invader is Asher, the god of darkness and fertility.

"Was it you who taught Jarrah to summon me?" The invader – the god – kneels next to Micah.

Micah recoils. "No, Holy One, I would not so dare."

"No, I don't suppose you would." 

Jarrah finds himself the focus of those burning eyes. "Then how, little Jarrah, did you learn the rite to bring me here?"

Jarrah doesn't drop his gaze. "I summoned no one. I just performed a rite of fertility, the rite that every child of the Temple must perform, with the prayer Jiseth taught me."

"Sweet Jarrah, little Jarrah, rape-gotten child of my last priestess, you really have no idea what you've done, do you?"

Jarrah blinks in confusion. "I went out to the field on the first new moon after my seventeenth birthday and made an offering." He remembers the feel of the hard dry ground under his bare feet, the legacy of desolation wrought by his sire's troops when they'd salted the holy fields and poisoned the lake that fed the Temple. He remembers finding a single patch of green life – a clump of sorry weeds – in the far corner of the field, and desperately masturbating while reciting a prayer to the God of Darkness and Fertility, Asher the Eagle.

"An offering? Like the one you are about to make now?" 

The invader laughs and Jarrah almost faints as the strange lust he'd been experiencing swells fully to life. He fights for control and for his voice. "I do not regret anything I've done, no matter how unwittingly. I had not dreamed that the rite would free the land from Ydon the Defiler, but I would perform it endlessly if it would restore the fertility to the land and bring back the Temple."

"I think you mean that, little one. I think you would empty your soul to restore what was lost."

Jarrah nods. "It is my birthright."

"Perhaps." The eyes behind the mask are still glowing, but the uncanny red blaze is gone, leaving just the pure blueness of a summer's evening sky just before the sun disappears behind the horizon.

"What do I need to do to prove myself?"

"You will submit yourself. To my will."

Jarrah lets out a breath. 

"You think it will be so easy, little Jarrah? You think you will just come to my bed and let me satiate myself on your body?"

Jarrah, drops his gaze, he has no answer to that.

"You are my recompense, mine and my brothers, for the desecration to the land. Ydon and his elder offspring have paid with their lives. You will pay with your body."

Micah makes a sound, and that draws the invader's attention. "What? You think to halt my intentions? To stop your charge from fulfilling his vow? To forestall his share of Jiseth's curse?"

"He is innocent, holy one. Jarrah is true and pure and Ydon's blood holds no part of him. He is blameless. He summoned you."

"And that is why Jarrah will live. Why his head won't adorn the temple midden." The invader gestures and the guards bind Micah's hands behind his back, pulling him upright. "You will watch, all of you will watch, as I re-sanctify this holy place with the flesh of the line of Jiseth."

Those words echo through the marble hall.

The invader touches Jarrah for the first time, his hand – gloved and hard – cups Jarrah's cheek in a parody of tenderness. "What is my name, Jarrah, son of Jiseth?"

Jarrah swallows and the dryness in his throat is panful, but he manages to speak through his dread. "You are Asher, you are the Holy One, Lord of Darkness who has the power that makes things grow and flourish."

"Very good, little one." The invader, Asher, brushes his thumb against Jarrah's lips before letting go. "Are you read to look upon the face of your god?"

The court – Ydon's lackeys who hadn't fled when Asher had arrived – fall to their knees and cover their heads as Asher lifts his helmet off. Jarrah, though, cannot drop his eyes. He remembers the whispered lessons his mother had taught him, that the face of the god, of Asher, was not for mortal eyes. That men and women who caught but a glimpse of the god would be rendered blind, or insane, if they even survived.

The face that's revealed is handsome, but not in a way that would drive anyone mad. Asher seems older that what Jarrah expected; harder, too. For some reason, Jarrah had imagined the god of fertility to be youthful, the embodiment of springtime. But Asher is more like high summer, at the time of harvest.

And then the god smiles and all reason leaves Jarrah's mind. He becomes a creature of need and lust and want and submission. Without conscious choice, he kneels before Asher and buries his face against the god's armor-clad groin.

"Open your mouth."

Jarrah obeys, and not just because Asher is his god. Jarrah obeys because he's dreamed of this moment for years, since the night he'd made his offering in the field. He'd dreamed of submitting to a stranger, a man of endless power. And not through his own will, but being force to answer for his desires. He mouths at the armor, the leather is rough and hard and unbearably delicious.

"Good boy, you want my cock?" 

Jarrah looks up, but doesn't take his mouth away. Asher smiles and one again, Jarrah loses all will. With his teeth, he works at the ties that hold the codpiece closed, until the cup falls away. But Jarrah's disappointed – he still needs to get past the leather breeches. 

"Slowly, little Jarrah. I am in the mood to play." Asher threads his fingers through Jarrah's hair, the long, curling strands catching in the gauntlets' links. The pain is needle-sharp and bright, but it does not distract Jarrah from his goal. 

Asher rocks his hips forward and Jarrah can feel the pulse-beat of the god's massive cock. It will choke him, surely, and panic overtakes desire and Jarrah pulls away. But Asher doesn't free him, his hands tighten in Jarrah's hair and the pain is rich and hard and almost unbearable.

"This is what you asked for, Jarrah of Jiseth. You wanted to submit yourself to my will and my will is absolute. One hand releases Jarrah's hair and undoes the strands of leather that bind the garment closed. The other hand keeps Jarrah's faced pressed to the god's groin and where there was once leather, there's now hot, hard flesh. 

Asher is relentless as he pushes his cock down Jarrah's throat, uncaring that Jarrah's gagging, choking, that he can't breathe. Jarrah can't suck, he can't pleasure, he can't do anything but serve as a receptacle for the god's lust. His own desire has vanished and as Asher batters at him, Jarrah wonders if he has made a terrible mistake. Micah had warned him and the god himself had told him he is seeking recompense and would take it from Jarrah's flesh.

"Ah, little one, you are not enjoying yourself?" Asher has paused, his cock still deep in Jarrah's throat. Jarrah blinks and the world has gone cloudy from the tears of pain and distress.

Asher strokes Jarrah's cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. He lifts it to his lips and tastes the single drop. "Sweet – and all the sweeter for your pain. I told you that my recompense would not be easy. Are you failing in your vow before we have even begun? Shall I let you go?" The god pulls his cock from Jarrah's mouth.

It seems as if Jarrah's being given a choice, but the choice is a false one. If he asks to be released, he'll have failed, and Jarrah can imagine the consequences. Asher and his brother-gods will withdraw and the land will fall deeper into desolation. Without the temple, fertility will not return to Ur-Avvar, and those who do not starve will be doomed to a barren, childless existence. Ur-Avvar will be erased within a generation.

"I shall not be foresworn, Holy One. Use me as you will." Jarrah hears the harshness of his own voice and he licks his bruised lips, trying to remember those wonderful dreams. It is hard, if not impossible, with the Destroyer's court now watching. He can feel the lust in their eyes, sexual desire as well as their need to see the hated seventh son brought low.

And it's not only the court's lust he can sense, but that of Asher's six brother-gods. Their eyes are bright behind their helmets. They are Enlil the horse and Enki the wolf and Anu the bull, Ianna the leopard and Nanna the stag and Utu the ram. Creatures of earth as Asher is a lord of the sky.

"Am I to serve all of you?" Jarrah prays that Asher is as possessive of his acolytes as the old texts say.

"How impertinent you are, little Jarrah, to ask about the conditions of your servitude. Are you trying to bargain with a god?"

"No, Holy One, I only wish to know now best I may serve." Jarrah looked at the god. He would not cast his eyes down. Yes, he was a supplicant, but he was proud, too.

"You lie most prettily. Perhaps I should make you my brothers' plaything, make you take their cocks in every hole, over and over again, until you are used up and fit only for the pyre and the midden."

Micah makes a pleading sound. Jarrah is struck dumb with terror.

"But I am possessive and while my brothers and I share many things, you – sweet Jarrah, seventh born and brave beyond words – are mine and mine alone."

The dread recedes, but Asher smiles. It is not the one that calls forth the desire in Jarrah's blood, but the one that freezes it. "My brother-gods hold power in this land - not the way I do, but they call to the beasts they align with - and they wish to see their creatures roam the land again, feasting on its fertility. The only way that will happen is through you, last of Jiseth's line."

Jarrah remembers his mother's words, that to make the land bloom, the gods will only take what they find pleasing. He swallows past his bruised and aching throat. "I have given myself into your keeping and if it is your will to share me with your brother-gods, then I will accept this as my fate."

Asher drags his fingers across Jarrah's cheek, gathering up the last of his tears. "I think you mean that." The god looks over to his brothers, his gaze a signal.

The horse god – Enlil – approaches first and tears off Jarrah's linen kilt, leaving him naked. Enlil pulls out his cock – so massive that Jarrah has to wonder if the god is truly part horse – and starts masturbating. It doesn't take long before Jarrah is drenched in Enlil's seed. 

Ianna the Leopard takes off his helmet and hands it to Enlil before kneeling next to Jarrah. Ianna's face is tattooed with markings like the great cat's – the lines and spots that frame deep golden eyes. He is possible the most beautiful man Jarrah's ever seen, but the beauty doesn't move him to anything but fear. Ianna seems to know that and laughs before he sniffs at Jarrah's neck.

"You want him, don't you?" The words are low and Jarrah doesn't answer. "Everyone wants Asher, he rides through the land and there isn't a creature that doesn't feel the sharp bite of desire." Ianna licks his neck, undoubtedly tasting Enlil's seed. "But I bite too." 

Ianna may be about to demonstrate how sharp his teeth are, but Asher growls and only licks Jarrah again. He stands up, over Jarrah, and pulls out his cock. "I wish I had the chance to really taste you, Jarrah of Jiseth. But my brother-god is possessive and so I am only allowed to give you this." He stays closer that Enlil had, close enough that his cock brushes against Jarrah's chin and lips. 

Jarrah risks a glance at Asher, to see if the god wants him to suck Ianna's cock. Asher shakes his head and Jarrah just stays on his knees and waits for Ianna's semen to hit his face.

Anu the Bull is next and he is terrifyingly huge, putting Enlil's massive cock in the shade. Enu uses it like a club, smacking Jarrah with it, hard enough to make his head ache and his ears ring. He leaves streaks of pre-come on Jarrah's face, which mingles with the semen his brothers have already left.

But he doesn't masturbate in Jarrah's face; Enu walks around Jarrah and pushes him until his face is on the floor. Jarrah has to wonder if the Bull is about to rape him, about to take what should be Asher's and Asher's alone.

He doesn't – but he does straddle Jarrah, humping against him, letting his cock and balls ride against Jarrah's spine in a parody of copulation. His come, as copious as his brothers', soaks into Jarrah's hair and neck. 

Enki the Wolf takes up Anu's place, but Nanna and Utu don't wait for him to finish. The three brothers rub themselves all over Jarrah, stroking their cocks against Jarrah's come-drenched skin and hair, until they empty themselves onto Jarrah.

The world is reduced to the marble under Jarrah's hands and knees and the sound of semen dripping off his face. 

He vaguely hears Asher tell someone to take him away, to clean him up and prepare him. He's lifted up, like a stag brought down by hunters, and as he's carried away, the world goes dark.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Asher looks at his brother-gods as they lounge around the throne room – or more accurately – the Temple sanctuary. The Destroyer's minions have been banished like so many cobwebs and Asher can feel the poison leech away from this place.

"The little one is delicious." Ianna picks at his nails with a dagger. "I could gobble him up in two bites."

"Don't be greedy." Utu stretches and revealed a tight and hairy belly. Like his brothers, he's discarded his armor, but his weapons are never out of reach. "I want another taste of him, too."

"But we're not going to get that, are we, Asher?" Enlil, the brother-god Asher's closest to – in age and companionship – asks.

"No. The little one is mine. You've had your fun and then some."

"You're too possessive, Asher." Ianna's tone is one of boredom; his protest made more for form than out of any feelings of ill-use.

Asher, though, does not take his brother-god's words lightly. He issues an edict and expects to be obeyed. "Jarrah is mine and you don't want to fight me over this."

"No, of course not." Enlil replies and nudges at Ianna, who shrugs his acquiescence. 

Asher picks up the crown that had tumbled from the Destroyer's head. "I think I have a use for this." He holds the crown between his hands and uses his will to reshape it into something more pleasing. It had been part of the priestesses' raiment before the Destroyer had stolen it, and it forms easily into just what Asher wants.

Enki asks, "A pretty gift for your pretty little priest?"

Asher nods. "He's given himself to me; he needs to understand just what that means." He hands in to Enlil. "Keep this safe until it's time."

Enlil takes it and says, "We're all looking forward to watching that happen."

"It will happen soon enough if you get off your lazy asses, find a few shovels, and get out into the field. You know what to do."

Anu and Ianna groan. "You are a harsh taskmaster. We've just come from war."

Asher shakes his head. "Killing the six sons of Ydon the Destroyer isn't much of a war."

"You know what we mean." Anu isn't precisely whining.

"You mean you'd rather laze around and drink mead and toast your own fertility?"

"And yours." Enlil – always the peace maker – ends this ridiculous discussion. "We'll do as you asked. It shouldn't take long."

"Take your time. I plan to do the same."

His brother-gods laugh and as Asher leaves, they give him all kinds of outrageous suggestions for what he should do to Jarrah when he finds him. Asher doesn't have to search for Jarrah – he can sense just where he is. They are attuned, tied, linked together since Jarrah woke him and his brothers from their deathless sleep.

Asher wonders if the boy had realize the power of the rite he'd performed, and if it was deliberate or pure happenstance that he'd showered Asher's buried altar with his seed. He'll discover that in time. Jarrah is not just priestly get, but a creature born to submit. All Asher needs to do is provide the right amount of pressure and Jarrah will tell him everything. He'll do anything that Asher wants and that is a heady and dangerous power.

He finds Jarrah in a sunlight bathing room, the roof open to the sky. He's attended on only by the one-eyed Micah. Jarrah is sitting on a bench and Micah's pouring water over him, rinsing away fragrant soap bubbles. This chamber is fitted out in the traditional manner, with three bathing pools – hot, warm and cold – but before anyone can use those pools, they are first cleansed with soap and sweet oil, then washed clean, as Micah is doing to Jarrah.

Micah sees Asher and starts, but Asher gestures for Micah to continue. Jarrah is in a state – exhaustion and lust and fear have taken their toll on him. He's as passive as a doll while Micah leads him to the warm pool.

Jarrah doesn't see Asher, which suits Asher's purpose. Once Jarrah's settled in the pool, Asher dismisses Micah with a nod. Micah is about to protest, but he remembers who Asher is and what Jarrah has sworn to do. 

Micah bows his head, but his single eye meets Asher's gaze. There is warning there, one that Asher will heed – that Jarrah is yet an innocent, one who has suffered much under his sire's hand, but has remained strong and true to his mother's teachings. Micah has sworn vows too, and he loves his charge. Asher may be a god, he may be _the_ god of this temple, but he is can recognize and honor what Jarrah means to Micah. 

So Asher nods in understanding and Micah leaves them alone. The linen kilt that Asher had donned in place of his armor takes but a moment to undo and he steps into the pool. Jarrah's head is resting against a cushion and he's staring at the sky, fully oblivious to Asher's presence.

Or perhaps not. "How may I serve you, Holy One?" Jarrah's voice is rough and barely above a whisper, a reminder of how harshly Asher had used that mouth. And also a reminder that Asher – unlike his brother-gods – has not yet taken his pleasure.

"Look at me." It would be easy for Asher to use his will to compel Jarrah's desire, but that would be most unsatisfactory.

Jarrah turned his head, his gaze barely focused. Asher is unwillingly mesmerized by the color of those eyes. Green-gold, like the reeds that line the riverbanks. He hadn't noticed their color when Jarrah was on his knees, his mouth a receptacle for Asher's hungry cock and Asher's still burning anger.

Although Asher's cock is still hungry, his anger at the fate of Ur-Avvar and the Temple has been banked. Watching his brother-gods masturbate over Jarrah, drenching him in their seed, making Jarrah an object of their lust, had sated the rage, but roused a need to protect that goes beyond the usual possessiveness that he feels for his priestly worshipers.

This is personal and disturbing. Asher accepts the bonds that Jarrah created, but Jarrah's a mortal and will pass from this world soon enough. He _wants_ this child of Jiseth, he wants to impose his will on him, and to make Jarrah want everything that Asher – god of fertility and darkness – can give him.

Jarrah gaze is lambent, his posture quiescent. 

"Stand up." Asher hopes that Jarrah has sufficient strength in this state to obey. 

He does, and rises out of the water like river seal, sleek and golden. Jarrah's young, but he's more than a striping. There's muscle there, the start of an adult's definition in the torso, strength in the upper arms. Asher can't imagine that Ydon's seventh son doesn't know how to wield a blade or ride a horse.

It is, perhaps, the lack of body hair that contributes to the sense of youth. The bath has darkened Jarrah's red-brown curls to a rich mahogany and Jarrah's ivory skin has acquired a sheen of gold. 

Yes, Jarrah of Jiseth, Jarrah of Ydon, is beautiful, and Asher wants him

And the wanting isn't diminished by the returning fear in Jarrah's eyes or the swelling of Jarrah's cock.

"Turn around."

Jarrah shivers but he obeys. The boy's ass is a gift to the gods – or to _this_ god. Pert and perfect and solid. Asher looks forward to bending Jarrah over and making that ass bounce, turning it bright red as he punishes it.

But that's for later. 

Now, Asher wants to woo his would-be acolyte, to seduce him, to give him pleasure and bind him to Asher as if he's taken holy vows. That thought amuses Asher, because that is precisely what Jarrah is doing.

Jarrah is still standing and Asher rises out of the pool behind him, not to depart for drier conditions, but to bring Jarrah back down, nestled between his thighs. Jarrah's back is against Asher's chest and his head rests against Asher's shoulder. The water is waist-high and Asher is amused to see Jarrah's erect cock cresting above the gently lapping wavelets. Asher cups his hand around Jarrah's cock, stroking gently, but Jarrah squirms against him, trying to get away.

"What's the matter? Don't you like it like this? Gentle and soft?"

Jarrah settles back against him, but his posture is stiff. "No one has ever touched me for pleasure."

"Not even your devoted protector? He's never held you and eased your lust?"

"Micah? Of course not!"

"Shh, don't be so outraged. It's not uncommon or shameful."

"Micah is like a father to me. He wouldn't - "

"Perhaps he should have." Asher kisses the sweet part of Jarrah's neck and starts stroked his cock. "You want this, little one. You want my hand on you, my mouth on you."

Jarrah nods. "Only you. Please, only you."

There's a perverse streak in Asher that wants to take Jarrah's plea and turn it against him. To tell Jarrah that he'll be whored out to Asher's brother-gods in full view of the Temple and the worshipers. Not that Asher would ever do that – Jarrah is _his_.

But reason asserts itself. He _wants_ Jarrah and he can have him in all the ways that matter.

"Very well, sweet Jarrah, only me. But for that, you can't ever deny me."

"You are my god, how could I deny you?" Jarrah sobs.

"Why are you crying?" 

"It's too much, it's nothing like what I'd imagined it would be like. What I'd been taught."

"Clandestine lessons in the shadow of a desecrated Temple? No, I don't think you've been taught anything more than ritual. You will learn how to serve me by experience. Some lessons, like the one I'm teaching you now, will be pleasurable." Asher turns his attention back to Jarrah's pretty cock. "Other lessons will be hard and will test you.

Jarrah shudders, but does nothing to evade Asher's hands. He strokes Jarrah's cock with one hand, his fist loose and teasing; his other hand creates its own mischief, discovering all of the sensitive places along Jarrah's torso. Asher's index finger rims Jarrah's navel in a parody of other intimacies. 

Jarrah whines and shimmies against Asher. He's not trying to escape, but to seek greater contact. Asher rewards this eagerness and his own pleasure grows; Jarrah's ass is perfectly situated against Asher's groin. While their watery environment cancels out the friction that this position would usual engender, the pressure of those hot, firm buttocks framing his cock is a deliciously tantalizing promise.

"Shhh, relax. Let me teach you all about how to please a god."

Asher works at Jarrah's cock, pulling with the most subtle of pressures, keeping his own desires in check as he prolongs Jarrah's completion. "I like being the first one to bring you pleasure."

"The only one, please." Jarrah's sobbing. "Please, only you."

"Perhaps." Asher's tone is cruel. "Ianna is most infatuated with you. And Anu would love to mount you." He nips Jarrah's earlobe, hard enough to hurt but not to break the skin.

"No, no, no – please no." Jarrah sounds terrified, but his cock remains as hard as stone and he bucks into Asher's palm.

"And need I remind you of your pledge – that if it pleased me to give you to my brother-gods, you would obey? You do remember back just a few hours, Jarrah?" Asher whispers.

"Yes, Holy One." Jarrah's response is choked, tear-filled. And still, his cock is hard in Asher's hand.

Asher enjoys this torment, but he's getting hungry for more than just words. "For now, you're mine. Mine to keep and enjoy and destroy." On that last word, Asher pinches one of Jarrah's tight, pink nipples. The physical pain makes Jarrah's cock leap in Asher's palm.

"Shall I fuck you, little one? Shall I flip you over and press your face into the floor while I take your virgin ass?"

Jarrah whimpers.

"Or perhaps I we should see if my brother-gods have found the altar and returned it to the Temple."

That gets a coherent reaction from Jarrah and he tries to turn and look at Asher. "What? The altar? Ydon destroyed it and tossed it into the midden. That's what my mother told me."

Asher's not sure he likes Jarrah talking about his mother when they are so close to fucking. "So, you didn't know what you were doing the night you'd performed the fertility ritual."

"What do you mean?"

"You went out to the field behind the Temple and masturbated into to the barren soil."

"I found a patch of weeds growing – they were the bane of my sire's existence. He'd go out every spring and pour salt over them, he'd try to burn them out, but they'd never die. I thought it had been a sign. That not all the fertility of the Temple had been killed."

"It was – it marks the spot where my altar is buried. Jiseth had known that she couldn't stand against Ydon and replaced the altar with a fake. She had it buried in the field – and then told you what to do and where to go to wake me and my brothers from our sleep."

"I didn't know that this would happen."

"That you'd be directly responsible for your sire's downfall? For the death of your half-brothers?"

Jarrah laughs. "Does it sound too bloodthirsty if I say that those are simply side-benefits? I meant I didn't know I'd waken the gods and bring fertility back to the land."

"Yes, it is bloodthirsty, but perhaps it is recompense for all you've suffered before." Asher can't resist and adds, "And everything that you will still need to endure to achieve your goals."

"So, your presence alone won't bring the land back to life?"

"No."

"What kind of god are you?"

Asher sighs. "Not a very good one, Jarrah. After all, I slept while Ydon raped this land, killed my acolytes, destroyed my Temple."

"But you're here now, you're not going anywhere?" Jarrah sits up and tries to twist around, but Asher keeps a firm grip on him.

Asher thinks this is a most strange conversation to have when holding a man's cock, trying to bring him to completion and assert his will over him. "No, little one. I'm not going anywhere."

Jarrah settles back and wraps his own hand around Asher's wrist, stopping Asher's stroking. "Will you fuck me here? Claiming me in private for the first time? And then, on the altar, with your brother-gods as witness? Would that please you, Holy One?"

Asher likes the pleading note in Jarrah's voice. He also likes that Jarrah seems to understand the rules of the game that Asher's playing. "Yes, that would most certainly please me." In a show of godly strength, he stands and picks Jarrah up, carrying him from the pool, back to the bench where he'd first found him.

Jarrah looks at him, his eyes now clear and shining brightly. Jarrah's lips are red and swollen – perhaps from the abuse Asher had inflicted earlier or perhaps as a sign of Jarrah's own desire.

Jarrah straddles the bench, his long legs obscenely parted, displaying his cock and balls and anus. He's flushed pink from the bath and Asher wonders if he's ever seen anything quite as beautiful as Jarrah of Jiseth in the fullness of his desire.

There's a covered bowl on a stand near the bench, it contains a fragrant unguent that will be perfect to ease his way into Jarrah's beautiful body. Although this first coupling takes place outside of the Temple sanctuary, away from the eyes of worshipers and his brother-gods, it is still a holy act, a rite of fertility that will help heal the land and bind Jarrah to Asher.

As with all rites of fertility, the participants must be willing, and better yet joyous in their participation. There is a time and a place for pain and even humiliation, but now is not it.

Asher is generous with the unguent – on himself and on Jarrah. As he works in into Jarrah, Asher has to wonder if Micah had provided this concoction knowing what they'd be doing here. As it warms, there's just the tiniest bit of tingling burn. Jarrah mewls and bucks against Asher's fingers, inviting deeper penetration. 

"Easy, sweet Jarrah. Now is not the time for pain." Jarrah doesn't cease his movements and Asher withdraws his hand and lightly slaps Jarrah's flank. "Even self-inflicted."

At that Jarrah settles down and Asher resumes his preparation. He takes more of the lubricant onto his hand and continues to work first one, then two, and finally a third finger into Jarrah's body. He's careful with his probing and stretching - he wants this first coupling to burn in Jarrah's mind, not that he will ever let Jarrah have anyone else to compare to him.

His fingers find Jarrah's joy spot and Jarrah lets out a pleasured moan. 

"Are you ready for me?"

"I've been ready for you forever, Holy One."

The title - however proper - annoys Asher. "Say my name."

Jarrah rolls his head in refusal.

"Say my name." Instead of withdrawing his hand and denying Jarrah the pleasure, he crooks his fingers and pushes at that special spot and Jarrah screams. 

But not the name Asher wants and _needs_ to hear. He could walk away and leave Jarrah hanging, punishment for his disobedience. Which would earn Asher nothing but resentment.

So Asher simply purrs, "When the time comes, you'll say my name, Jarrah of Jiseth, you'll scream it until you have no voice left."

"Maybe." 

Jarrah doesn't surrender easily and Asher finds that incredibly arousing. "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Good." 

Oh, Jarrah will be the source of so much pleasure. Asher leans over Jarrah and whispers, "You think to compel the will of a god?"

"Of this god, yes." Jarrah stares into Asher's eyes and licks his lips.

Asher has to wonder at who is controlling who. "Your mouth is going to get you into so much trouble." And before Jarrah can answer, Asher kisses him. This is the first time their lips have met and Asher's hunger flares out of control. He devours Jarrah's mouth, penetrating Jarrah with his tongue as he will with his cock. Beneath him, Jarrah opens up like a flower; taking everything that Asher will give him and giving back in equal measure.

Without breaking the kiss, Asher lifts one of Jarrah's long legs over his hip and presses the tip of his cock against Jarrah's well-stretched hole. Jarrah rocks up against him, trying to quicken Asher's penetration. Asher has to break their kiss, he needs the leverage, he needs to maintain control. 

Jarrah's whimper almost breaks that control.

Asher steadies himself and takes the leg wrapped around his hip and lifts it up and onto his shoulder. And of course, Jarrah still does everything he can to take control of their coupling. Asher smiles as he thinks of a most appropriate punishment, and he presses forward, finally completing their joining.

Finally, Asher is buried deep in Jarrah's willing body and he's almost afraid to move for the pleasure.

He's been on a slow simmer of lust since Jarrah had been carried into his presence. He'd had his cock in Jarrah's mouth and been a hair's breadth from completion. He'd watched his brother-gods rut in their hands, spilling themselves over Jarrah, and he'd kept himself apart. He'd even worked Jarrah to near completion, his cock hard and wanting between Jarrah's buttocks, barely a fingertip length from his tiny hole, and still he'd maintained control.

It was time to let that control go, take his pleasure in the fullest measure, to flood Jarrah with his seed, and to bring life back to the land.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Asher wraps his kilt around his waist and contemplates the young man he's so beautifully fucked. He doesn't give Jarrah any time to either revel in the sensation of being newly fucked or to relax in the afterglow of his orgasm.

"Up, up." He pulls at Jarrah, who doesn't want to move.

"What?" 

Jarrah's most enticingly splayed on the bench, thighs parts, his body glowing from orgasm. He smells delicious, too, the sheen of sweat mingling with their semen. But Asher has plans for Jarrah. Plans and promises that need to be kept.

"Remember what you promised? I deflower you here, in private, and then I can fuck you on the altar."

Jarrah sits up and to Asher's delight, he looks a little pleased at that prospect. "They've found the altar?"

"I told you, it was never lost. My brother-gods have retrieved it from the field." Asher can feel the power of the altar. "We have to re-sanctify the Temple."

Jarrah's smile broadens. "Do I need to ask you how that's done?"

"You have quite the mouth on you, sweet Jarrah. You'll need to be punished for it."

The pinkness in Jarrah's skin deepens and he looks up at Asher from under his lashes. "Is this part of the ritual?"

"Consider it preparation." Asher holds out his hand and Jarrah clasps it. The boy's fingers are smooth and strong; the callouses on his palm bear witness to some martial training. Asher looks forward to feeling that hand on his cock.

He pulls Jarrah with him, but before the cross the threshold of the bathing room, Jarrah balks. "I'm naked."

"And?" Asher raises an eyebrow at the obvious. 

Jarrah looks at him, head tilted to one side. "So, this is how things are now?"

"Smart _and_ beautiful. Now, come along. We have a rite to prepare for and perform."

Jarrah takes a deep breath and crosses out of the bathing room. He clings to Asher's hand and only pauses when then reach the staircase that will take them to the Sanctuary. 

Asher looks around and recognizes the path they are taking. "What are you thinking, sweet Jarrah?"

"That just a few hours ago, I'd hidden here with Micah, hoping against all hope that the invaders would kill Ydon and help him restore the Temple. I hadn't imagined that the invaders were the gods themselves, led by Asher, himself.

Asher pulls Jarrah close. "Sometimes, sweet one, you do get what you wish for." He kisses Jarrah, enjoying the warm, living, mortal flesh. But he keeps the kiss brief. The sun is setting and his power will crest with the coming darkness. "It's time."

He leads Jarrah down the stairs, never letting go of Jarrah's hand. He can feel the boy tremble as he sees the altar back in its rightful place. The throne that Ydon had put there has been reduced to a pile of gilded kindling. It will be fitting tinder for Ydon's pyre.

His brother-gods are back in their armor, holding their helmets. And instead of the useless, treacherous courtiers that had supported Ydon, the Sanctuary is filled with worshippers - the tired, weary people of Ur-Avvar. As Asher and Jarrah pass amongst them, they drop to their knees, murmuring their greetings to the Holy One and his priest.

With each step towards the altar, Jarrah seems to grow in strength and confidence, which pleases Asher to no end. Jarrah will be the first of his new rank of acolytes – he will be the only one to perform the rites with Asher. It is fitting, as Jarrah's many-times grandmother – the first Jiseth – had been the first priestess of this Temple and had been the first to bear Asher's seed on the altar.

But before that can happen, Asher needs to punish Jarrah for his displays of disobedience. To his delight, Jarrah doesn't struggle as Asher places him against the altar, belly against the stone, his buttocks on display for everyone's pleasure. Utu hands him lengths of leather and Asher binds Jarrah's wrists to the corners of the stone slab.

Ianna smirks as he hands him a small whip. "I thought you might need this."

"Perhaps I should use it on you?" Asher's threat isn't hollow.

"Don't be insulting, brother. It's a _dog_ whip."

Anu and Enki hold Jarrah's buttocks apart, revealing his hole. It's red and puffy, well and truly fucked. Jarrah's skin still glistens from the unguent and Asher's semen – a perfect lubricant to soften the impact of what is to come.

There is a holy number in the rites of the Temple – nine for the number of moons that pass between the sacrament of fertility and the bearing of fruit. And that will be the number of times Asher will strike Jarrah for his impertinence. Just enough to remind Jarrah that he should always think about pleasing his god, but not enough to truly harm him.

Jarrah writhes against the altar, and Asher accepts the invitation with pleasure. He brings the whip down right across that tender flesh. Jarrah might have flinched away, but Anu and Enki keep a firm grip on him.

Asher lays down three more measured blows and steps back. He's almost unbearably aroused – not just by the act, but by the watching crowd of worshipers and even his brother-gods' presence. And of course, by Jarrah's absolute submission.

Ianna approaches with a cup and Asher takes a grateful sip. It's not wine, but water – clean and cold. He hands the cup back to Ianna with instructions to offer a sip to Jarrah.

Asher takes his time with the remaining strikes of the whip. They aren't hard, and certainly not intended to wound, but carefully placed flicks that will sting and live in memory for a while. Asher's hands are shaking as he returns the whip to Ianna.

He's far from composed and barely in control of his lust as he leans over Jarrah, still bound to the altar, and whispers, "Next time, I won't be so gentle."

And Jarrah, who clearly hasn't learned a single thing from his punishment, whispers back, "Good".

He unties Jarrah from the altar and rubs at the marks the leather bindings have left. Asher will have no need to bind Jarrah down when he claims him, his brother-gods watching, the supplicants and worshipers witnessing the divine rite of fertility for the first time in nearly twenty years. 

In restoring the altar to its rightful place, his brother-gods have torn down the stone walls that Ydon erected to block the sight of the Temple's poisoned fields. The last light of the sun reveals the ugly, barren land, but by tomorrow, it will bloom with new, verdant life.

Enlil offers Asher the transformed crown and he shows it to Jarrah. "Countless generations ago, I'd created a collar for the first Jiseth, for her to wear as a sign of her devotion and loyalty. Every one of my high priestess and priests had worn that collar. Until Ydon ripped it from your mother's neck and melted it down to make his crown."

Jarrah looks at him, wide-eyed and yet understanding what he's about to be offered. 

"I've taken back what's mine and given it new life. This is not the same collar as what Jiseth and her descendants wore - recreating that is pointless. If I put this on you, Jarrah of Jiseth, it will remain around your neck until your last breath. You have a choice."

Jarrah's answer is a beautiful, wordless gesture. He kneels before Asher and for the first time since they'd met, Jarrah drops his head in submission.

Asher places the collar around Jarrah's neck and wills it closed. The heavy gold is beautiful, glowing softly against Jarrah's ivory skin. 

Night is approaching and Asher has a ritual to complete. He helps Jarrah to his feet and then onto the altar. 

The altar is tall and broad, not that dissimilar to the bench where he'd deflowered Jarrah just a few hours ago. He places Jarrah on his knees, so that the world contained within the Temple will be able to witness Jarrah's pleasure at their joining. Generations of acolytes performing these sacraments have worn dips and valleys in the stone, and Jarrah's palms find the place where so many others have put their hands, his knees find similar welcome.

Asher, playing to the assembly, pulls loose his kilt and tosses it away. Perhaps some lucky worshiper will claim it and keep it as an treasured token, preserved and perhaps to be worn by generations of grooms on their wedding nights.

Micah approaches, a covered dish cupped between his palms. It is the same kind oil that Asher had found in the bathing chamber. Of course Micah is still looking after his charge and the rite of fertility should not bring pain, only pleasure. Unless, of course, the participants find pleasure through pain.

Asher is generous with the lubricant, working it against the marks he'd just left on Jarrah's hole. Jarrah groans and pushes back, clearly enjoying the massage. Jarrah's hole is tender and the skin swollen from Asher's abuse.

Enlil picks up his helmet and tucks it under his arm, beating on it as if it's a drum. Asher's other brother-gods follow suit, setting a slow, steady rhythm that is as erotic as the act itself.

Well lubed, Asher slides into Jarrah and he pours all of his power into this joining. This is the power of the land and the sky and the sea, the life and the blood that need both light and darkness to flourish. Jarrah bucks back against him and Asher is now seated up to his cods.

But stillness will gain him nothing. He fucks Jarrah, claiming him as his servant, his high priest, as the bearer and keeper of his seed. 

He covers Jarrah as a stallion might cover a mare, nipping at the tenderest of spots on Jarrah's neck. Low enough so they won't be heard over the pounding rhythm set by his brother-gods, Asher whispers, "Do you remember the words of Jiseth's curse?"

Jarrah stills for a moment beneath him. "Of course, how could I forget it. She'd condemned all of Ydon's line to sterility."

"No, sweet Jarrah. Jiseth was as canny as she was wise. She cursed the seed of Ydon's sons. She did not curse the fertility of her child." Asher cups Jarrah's belly. "You will bear me many beautiful daughters, Jarrah of Jiseth. Tonight, I fertilize you as I bring the land back to life."

Asher rears back and pulls Jarrah up with him, displaying his hard, leaking cock. 

The beat quickens and as the sun falls behind the horizon, plunging the world into a glowing darkness, Asher climaxes, filling Jarrah with new life.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Jarrah stands before the polished bronze mirror that Asher installed in their sleeping chamber and finds the sight of himself still unreal. His body is so … different.

"Admiring yourself again?"

Jarrah does find the changes in his body pleasing. But they are confusing, too. "Trying to understand how this is even possible."

"This is what happens when you get fucked by a fertility god." Asher is now standing behind him, one hand cupping the bulge of Jarrah's semi-aroused sex, the other possessive over the bulge of his belly. "In three months, you will bear my daughter."

Jarrah leans back against Asher - god and lover - accepting the truth of Asher's knowledge, but he still has questions. "I am a man, you are a man, how can we make a daughter."

Asher's laugh is warm and teasing against the bare skin above the collar. "I am a god, sweet Jarrah, you have the blood of a god in your veins. And that makes everything possible."

Over the past six months, Asher has explained so much to Jarrah, especially his relationship with the line of acolytes who have served him and the Temple. Jarrah had been a little bemused to learn that Asher was his many-times great-grandsire; a blood connection that stared with the first Jiseth, countless generations ago.

Jarrah suspects that Asher had visited the Temple and performed the rites with other priestesses and priests of his line, but not within the last four generations. Asher and his brother-gods had been sleeping for a century, a necessity. This sleep had restored their own power and they would rise only when a virgin priest performed the rites of waking. Jiseth had known that the gods were sleeping when Ydon had swept across Ur-Avvar. The destruction of the Temple had forced Jarrah's mother to make difficult and terrible decisions. 

The past and the horror of Ydon and his sons is a quickly fading memory that grows dimmer as the land becomes fertile. Many children will be born in the coming months - not just Jarrah and Asher's daughter.

Jarrah enjoys Asher's hands on his transformed body, but he frees himself from his god's greedy hands. Asher give an annoyed growl and reaches for Jarrah. "I would gladly spend the day in bed with you, but there are sacraments to be performed. Tomorrow starts the harvest of the Temple fields."

At that reminder, Asher chuckles. "Ah, yes. The harvest rites. I have been looking forward to them."

These rites are very specific and will require much from Jarrah. And from Asher.

"Shall I make you ready, or would you prefer your attendants?" Asher's question is sly, because the god knows that Jarrah does not like anyone else's hands on him, especially for intimate preparations.

"No, today I think I will made the god work for his pleasure." Jarrah catches Asher's gaze in the mirror.

"As you command, holy Seedkeeper."

Jarrah would laugh at that appellation, but it's the perfect description. He is the keeper of Asher's seed, and as it germinates and grows within him, fertility is restored to the land and the people of Ur-Avvar.

Jarrah stands still as Asher coats his body with a light film of oil. There is something in it that makes Jarrah's skin tingle pleasurably. 

After that, Asher takes gentle care in loosening his back passage, using thicker unguents. Jarrah gasps, his ever-present desire for the god almost cresting as Asher finds that special spot inside him. "Stop, stop - I cannot come yet."

Asher laughs. "I'm going to need to teach you better control."

Jarrah licks his lips and says breathlessly, "I will hold you to that promise." 

Asher slowly withdraws his fingers, teasing Jarrah's rim until Jarrah again begs him to stop. 

"Or perhaps not. I can make you come a dozen times, sweet Jarrah, before the sun rises."

"Yes, but not here - on the altar."

Asher laughs. "And that will be a promise I will hold _you_ to."

Asher adorns Jarrah with the rest of the holy raiment - a pair of rings set with golden stones through his nipples, and a cleverly made cage for Jarrah's cock and balls. It barely fits over Jarrah's fully aroused manhood - but it's designed to fit so that just the head of Jarrah's cock will poke out of it. 

As part of the ritual, Asher will be the one to lie on the altar and Jarrah will mount him, sinking down on the god's cock and fucking himself before the crowd of worshippers, before Asher's brother-gods. Micah will attend him, ensuring that the rite is performed without any fumbling or mistakes. 

And Jarrah will come, just from Asher's penetration and the eyes of the faithful watching him, watching them. Jarrah is breathless with desire, just from anticipation.

Ever-faithful Micah bows to Jarrah, and then Asher, before announcing, "It is time, Holy Ones."

Jarrah can hear the drum-beats. It is time. He turns to Asher and lifts his chin; Asher attaches as short chain to the collar he'd fashioned for Jarrah and gives a slight tug.

"Yes, my sweet Seedkeeper, let us go. It is time."

__

FIN


End file.
